


A Game, of Sorts

by hikari_datenshi (Salamander)



Category: British Comedian RPF
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-27
Updated: 2010-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:02:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamander/pseuds/hikari_datenshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Charlie Brooker is a champion jousting Knight, and David Mitchell is the poncy, snooty Lord he has to serve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Game, of Sorts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for one of the kinkmemes, to the prompt of: Charlie onna horse!

Ser Brooker smirked. He tilted the blue-tinged visor up and glared triumphantly round at the jeering crowds. He loved jousts. He loved that thrill of unhorsing his fifth opponent, carrying on with his winning streak, and he especially loved that they gave him opportunities to have glaring matches with Lord Mitchell, who was, ostensibly, _his_ Lord, but Ser Brooker did not care for Lordships and who was whose vassal. As long as his armour was paid for, and plenty of heads were provided for him to bash in with his sword, he was happy. And Lord Mitchell, for his end of the bargain, got his lands kept safe, and Ser Brooker was ever ready to provide a verbal sparring partner in himself.

He kicked his horse, a beautiful black gelding he'd named Tebbit, into action. Tebbit reared and jounced on the spot, the show off, and Ser Brooker delighted in the feeling of him between his thighs, all strength and roiling muscle. They sheared off sharply to the left, and Ser Brooker pulled up short, right in front of the covered box where the Lords and Ladies sat.

He lifted a vambraced hand in salute to his Lord, letting a flash of red silk show. It was tucked down his gauntet in the style of a Lady's favour, and some of it spilled out like a splash of lace. The thought that people may wonder just which Lady was blind enough to give _him_ her favour filled Ser Brooker with interminable glee.

Lord Mitchell inclined his head in the fashion that said _shop showing off and get winning me some money, peon_, and Ser Brooker held his eye contact until Tebbit grew restive, and then they galloped off to the opposite end of the lists. He plucked his final lance from the page and squared off, hefting the familiar weight and feeling Tebbit's impatience grow.

His opponent did some sort of fancy bastard salute, and Ser Brooker slammed down his visor in response, lowering his lance, adjusting his grip, taking his aim. Tebbit needed no encouragement, he fair sprang from the sandstrewn floor, shaking his head in a challenge at the bay facing him. Ser Brooker snorted in triumph as his lance shattered dead on target – dead centre breastplate, just below where chainmail and plate met. An inch higher and the lance would no doubt punch a hole in the lad's jugular, and Ser Brooker prided himself on being able to hit that spot damn near every time.

\---

The cheers of the crowds outside the lists weren't as enthusiastic as they could be. Ser Brooker was never a popular winner. He'd always put it down to the fact that they didn't like his face, although the fact that he told them all to 'go fuck their asses in the face' on regular occasions probably didn't help.

The gossips had had a field day when Lord Mitchell took Ser Brooker as his vassal. Previously, Brooker had been a hedge knight, meandering the countryside on Tebbit, generally being a menace to wholesome society with his unhelmeted face and his rusty sword and his habit of pinning badly-spelled notes to trees with the sole intent of scaring children. "Buggre ye alle wi' a jointe stool," the notes would say, with a crude depiction of male anatomy beneath.

Said notes were, in fact, the main reason that Ser Brooker was hauled in front of a hostile court to being with. Pinning such a note to an official notice placed on an official noticeboard by the officials of one Lord Mitchell probably wasn't the best way to stay undetected, although it had taken a bit of a fight for them to subdue him, a fact which he held in the face of the Captain to this day.

Lord Mitchell had stared him right in the eye, looking down his pointy nose at Brooker, not flinching once, the ballsy bastard, and simply declared "He'll do," before stalking out of the room with a swish of his haughty cloak.

Exactly what it was that he would 'do' for was not made clear to Brooker for about three weeks. He was shoved into a stable, told to 'get yerself in shape fer the Lord' and basically left to his own devices. He picked up from the cook that Lord Mitchell liked to beat his dough without any flour, from the stablehands that he liked to go bareback without a bridle, and from the butler that he used his hatstand for more than just hats. Most of this information served to thoroughly confuse Brooker, but he went at his confusion with his usual bull-headedness until it went away, which it strictly didn't, but you know, trivialities.

Daily practise sessions were held with the Lord himself watching from a balcony, looking down his pointy nose, as usual. Occasionally, he would shout something cutting about Ser Brooker's stance, or his grip, or how he refused to use a shield, and Ser Brooker would glare up at him, sweat blurring his vision, and yell something about how he should come down there and say that to the sharp end of a sword.

\---

"Fetch that basket," Lord Mitchell demanded, pointing at the huge wicker affair. Twee chequered cloth poked out of the top – red and white – and one of the lids was propped slightly open by a wine bottle. Ser Brooker heaved the basket up and stumbled towards Tebbit, the damned thing bashing him in the knees as he walked. He mounted up, grunted at the page standing uselessly nearby, and the lad rushed to pass up the basket, which Brooker placed awkwardly in front of him, balancing precariously between the pommel and Tebbit's neck. He leant forward and gave Tebbit an encouraging rub, and then nodded at the page, who turned to leave with apparent relief plain on his face.

Lord Mitchell was awaiting him impatiently, mounted on his pure white stallion, Hattersley. "Are you quite ready?" he said, looking down his nose. Which was quite a feat, considering that Hattersley was a good two hands shorter than Tebbit. But then again, Ser Brooker had ceased being amazed by Lord Mitchell's ability to look snobby long ago. It was easier on his sanity that way, he found.

"Keep your hair on," he retorted. "Maybe if you hadn't decided to take the entire contents of the larder with you, we'd have been a bit quicker." He wheeled Tebbit around until they were side by side with Hattersley and Lord Mitchell. "Where are we going anyway? And how come we're not taking pages and butlers and the cook and a few court Ladies with us? It's not like you to be so... unchaperoned."

"I don't need a chaperone. I have you." Lord Mitchell applied his spurs to Hattersley and they sprang off ahead with a clatter of hooves on the courtyard cobbles. Ser Brooker sighed, and brought Tebbit to a comfortable pace. There was no way he could keep up with Hattersley with the size of that basket weighing him down, but he could outstrip the white with barely any effort were he unburdened. As long as Brooker kept the flash of white within his sights, he would not go far astray.

Indeed, it took less time than he had expected to catch up with a heavily-breathing Hattersley and a flushed Lord Mitchell. "Did you enjoy yourself, my Lord?" Ser Brooker had always found himself unable to say 'my Lord' without lacing his voice with heavy sarcasm, despite the looks of disapproval it earned him.

"It is good to be unencumbered by the trappings of court," he admitted. His hair was tossed about by the wind, and he had a colour to his cheeks that was not usually present. Ser Brooker stared at him for longer than was seemly, and then darted his eyes away when his Lord raised a quizzical brow at him. "This is where we are stopping," he said, gesticulating at the clearing. It was a nice clearing, Ser Brooker thought. Shady, and there were lots of trees around which were good for leaning against. He'd had many a woman against a tree like these when the mood had taken him. The bark made for a nice bit of rough. He smirked at the memories and dismounted, tugging off the basket with a grunt.

A pointed cough made him whirl round, and then he realised that Lord Mitchell was waiting for him to help with his dismount. He laughed. "Do you want me to pick you up like a girl?"

"What? No. Don't be ridiculous man. Just hold out your hands. Yes, like that." He dismounted rapidly and with grace, stepping down into Ser Brooker's laced hands and then onto the grass. "There's a blanket inside the basket," he said, "spread it on the floor so I can sit down."

Ser Brooker nodded, wondering at what precise moment the image of fucking a girl against a tree had metamorphosed into Lord Mitchell's flushed face and his wind-blown hair and his way of ordering him around. When exactly had the girl turned into a fussy Lord having his way with him? Faugh! He shook his head, trying to dismiss the image, which proved to be surprisingly resistant, and he spread the blanket on the grass. It was red and white chequered, like the basket lining, and exactly like the coat of arms on his shield. Those chequers proved ownership just as much as his employment did, and Ser Brooker felt a shiver dance up his spine as he seated himself against a fat trunk, and patted the blanket next to him.

Lord Mitchell sat down and crossed his legs neatly. He tugged over the basket, and began laying things out – a green glass bottle of wine, which he uncorked with unexpected skill and set to airing, half a roasted chicken, a pair of warm spiced loaves whose scent filled the clearing, and other delicacies that Brooker wouldn't normally be able to get his hands on. He grabbed one of the loaves, appreciating the warmth of it as he took a bite. He made a pleased noise in his throat, and was startled to see Lord Mitchell dart a glance at him, a flush colouring his cheeks as Brooker caught his eye and held the gaze. He chewed and swallowed, slowly, oh so slowly, the acute awareness of his Lord's scrutiny forefront in his mind, his eyes following Brooker's movements like a starving dog watching someone eat.

He reached for the wine, and exhaled sharply as Lord Mitchell slapped his hand away. "It's not aired enough yet," he said, something catching in his voice. His fingers lingered on Ser Brooker's gauntleted hand. "I think it's ridiculous that you're wearing armour on such a lovely day," he said, narrowing his eyes as if in challenge. "Take off the gauntlets."

Ser Brooker nodded. His voice would not obey him, and the noise of assent that tumbled from his lips was more a growl than an articulated word. He watched Lord Mitchell, who watched him, as Brooker took off the gauntlets and set them to one side. He waited as if for a signal, but Lord Mitchell simply stared at him, eyes still narrowed. Ser Brooker could hear that his breathing had changed, almost imperceptibly, but when you spent much of your time listening out for such changes on a battlefield, it stood out like blood on grass. He narrowed his eyes right back, and reached to unfasten the buckles that held together front and back of his breastplate, which he placed next to his gauntlets. He felt oddly naked without the platemail, though he was clothed in simple green homespun underneath. The fact that Lord Mitchell appeared to be devouring him with his eyes didn't exactly help, either, and Ser Brooker brought his legs up and unfastened his greaves, placing them with the rest, watching his Lord from beneath his eyelashes the whole time. There was some sort of game afoot, and he suspected its nature had something to do with the unsavoury rumours the staff had peddled around about his Lord.

Never let it be said that Ser Brooker wasn't game for something new. And the less said about that decidedly odd bout of imagination the better. He felt the heat of his cheeks as the memory grew brighter, and then he felt the heat of Lord Mitchell as he bore him down to the ground with surprising roughness for one so well-bred.

It wasn't exactly fucking a girl against a tree, but Ser Brooker found that he did not care.


End file.
